journopig: monitoring the media

Michael Jackson: The Live Seance (Friday 10pm, Sky1).

Even the name of the programme made us shake our heads with the sheer crapness of it.

And when we realised it was hosted by June “Incisive Questioning” Sarpong, the shaking became shuddering.

It was just a dreadful idea, executed badly.

Sarpong questioned the parapsychologist, calling him a psychologist. When he corrected her, you could almost hear her think, “Oh, what-EVAH!”

Then she introduced the special guest, David Gest, “who will be with us all night” with his fascinating views on, um, leprechauns, apparently.

The seance was being performed round an old, ugly table in a nondescript Irish room where Jackson wrote a song once. Apparently, he loved County Cork. Begorrah.

Presumably, the programme was being broadcast from here because of its well known link to Jackson (ahem) and not because it was cheap to hire or the only place willing to be associated with a crap programme idea.

The programme shoved loads of filler into the first 15 minutes – Jackson liked the Balinese themed bedroom at the Co Cork hotel; Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t believe in seances; David Gest thinks Jackson is dancing with Fred Astaire in heaven.

Derek Acorah was sitting at the table looking, quite frankly, a bit bored. Hopefully, the thought of his payment at taking part in this crass idea was keeping him occupied.

June Sarpong is no Yvette Fielding, and her laconic “I always wanted to meet Michael Jackson” sounded insincere. And her PVC trousers were equally bad.

And as for the “super-fans” who Sky1 had dragged in for their deep comments. One was the most unlikely Jackson impersonator ever to have appeared on screen.

Man In The Mirror played while we were shown “Glenn Jackson” putting his make-up on.

We reckon the programme makers were having a laugh – although they were probably just taking advantage of the fragile emotions of some rather tragic individuals who hadn’t realised that THEY DIDN’T REALLY KNOW JACKSON.

Watching the super-fans round the seance table, including Glenn, all dressed up as his late idol, including celebrity shades, was a bizarre sight; the immaculately groomed and permatanned Acorah looked positively dowdy in comparison.

Acorah, perhaps unsurprisingly, soon felt Jackson’s presence in his hat, which was on the table. Apparently, the hat wanted to fly. And then it wanted to come back to the table.

That was perhaps the highlight of a programme that didn’t believe in what it was doing any more than we did. There was little actual live seance, but lots of background, pre-recorded interviews and, frankly, crap.

It was a less entertaining version of Most Haunted, with Jackson apparently talking via Acorah’s spirit messenger. But he was talking rubbish.

He thanked people for coming. He was with Samuel and Crystal – random names that meant nothing to anyone. Journalists lie, said the spirit of MJ.

And then – “Will someone say hello to Quincy Jones, please?” MJ asked, through Acorah.

At which point, the collective house of Journopig burst out laughing.

Apparently, MJ is upset that he’s not buried next to Marilyn Monroe. Oh, and he didn’t abuse little boys. Well, I never.

We hate to say it, but Acorah really did sound as though he was mixing some general platitudes with carefully learned nuggets of factual information about MJ’s death.

And the superfans chosen to take part could safely be guaranteed not to say anything more challenging to the spirit anything than, “I love you, Michael!”

Just as well – Acorah seemed unable to even answer, “What was your favourite performance?” and waffled around the subject rather than just ask the spirit he said was occupying his head.

It was carefully orchestrated, cynical, unbelievable tosh, designed to appeal to obsessive fans and advertisers (the seance kept having to be interrupted for ad breaks).

And, when all is said and done, Yvette, Karl and the Most Haunted team (now minus Acorah) are a damn sight more entertaining, even if their programme is no more real.

“It’s been emotional,” droned Sarpong. No, it hadn’t. It had just been a boring, tragic, badly acted waste of an hour’s programming.